Reward trees entries/2019: Year of the Wild Boar
2019: Year of the Wild Boar :Scroll 1: The boar is a woodland creature, and an ornery, aggressive one at that. On the outskirts of Kaedwen, a rumor circulates that the beasts have a taste for virgin blood… Of course, the truth is much simpler: boars are perfectly content with vegetables – even just a few earthy carrots. :Scroll 2: Mother nature endowed the boar with two pairs of sharp, protruding tusks – the upper and lower canines. Truly, a formidable beast. Woe betide any who encounters a wild boar in the forest and has difficulty climbing trees… :Scroll 3: Boars have a firm, elongated snout that somewhat resembles a flute, though of course, sadly, cannot be used as such. Folk often claim it's as if boars hold a grudge against nature's cruel irony – that's what drives them to overturn fences and ransack their potato patches. :Scroll 4: The boar differs from the pig not only in the thickness of its bristles, but also in its disposition. Pigs are timid, easily spooked, whereas boars readily stand their ground. Even their grunts sound more hostile, as if to say, "Find your own potatoes, arsehole." :Chest 1: The combative, warrior-like nature of boars makes them them a popular choice in heraldry. They appear most infamously on the von Everec coat of arms from which Olgierd, the leader of the Redanian Free Company, is descended. And contrary to what some landlocked folk on the Continent would have you believe, the Wild Boar of the Sea is the moniker given to Skelligan jarl Crach an Craite and his longship. There are no known varieties of boar indigenous to the waters of the Great Sea. Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales Event tree :Scroll 1: When Meve left for the summit of sovereigns in Hagge, she instructed her chamber steward to prepare for her imminent return. A year passed before the queen would again sleep in her own bed. :Scroll 2: In the interim, Lyria and Rivia were conquered by Nilfgaard. Their seizure elicited only a few trite sentences from the mouths of imperial emissaries who brought word to the emperor. After all, what were these backwater lands in the greater scheme of Emhyr var Emreis' far-reaching ambitions? :Scroll 3: Queen Meve refused to lay down her arms, though few believed she stood a chance to reclaim her homeland. Though as history tells us, the people of the Continent would soon be surprised… None more so than the Nilfgaardians. :Scroll 4: Meve trekked a long, arduous path – through the smoldering ruins of Aedirn, the biting snows of Mahakam, and the perilous swamps of Angren. Upon returning to her homeland, she vowed to the gods themselves to never again step foot outside her realm. Ardal aep Dahy :Scroll 1: To call the Nilfgaardian imperial court a nest of vipers would be, quite frankly, an understatement. Simply in order to keep one's head, one must display exceptional measures of ruthlessness and cunning. To become Emhyr's right hand… Well now, that would require relinquishing any remaining dregs of conscience. :Scroll 2: Ardal aep Dahy fulfilled all the qualifications. He diligently analyzed everything from courtly intrigues to the war against the Nordlings as if it all were a game of chess. The idea that any given pawn might be a real, human life was never worthy of even an afterthought. :Scroll 3: The blade which hangs from Ardal aep Dahy's waist, with its studded rubies and blunt edge, served a purely ceremonial purpose. Though that did not mean that Ardal was an weak adversary. On the contrary, he simply had others fight his battles for him. :Scroll 4: From the nearest hilltop vantage point, far from the horrific melee of flesh and steel, Ardal aep Dahy commanded his legions via messengers, grimacing in disgust at the bloodcurdling screams of Nordlings crushed and broken beneath Nilfgaardian cavalry. :Chest 1: Ardal aep Dahy played an important role in aiding Emhyr's seizure of the throne from the Usurper. He had hoped the young, inexperienced emperor—beholden to a debt of gratitude—would serve as loyal puppet. Yet once it became obvious that Emhyr would never bend to aep Dahy's will, he immediately began plotting a conspiracy for his overthrow – all while maintaining an unwavering ritual of fawning compliments and dutiful smiles. :Chest 2: When preparations for the Second Northern War were underway, aep Dahy was initially assigned to lead Army Group "West". However, this did little to please the duke, for in fact he wasn't at all eager to prove his strength against the likes of Foltest and Vizimir. Instead, he pulled a few strings to be sent to the eastern front where he'd stand against Demavend and the gods-forsakened backwaters of Lyria and Rivia, ruled by a certain Queen Meve… :Chest 3: At first, the invasion proceeded according to plan. The Nilfgaardian legions under aep Dahy's command swiftly overpowered Lyria and Rivia without spilling a drop of blood, due in large part to an act of northern treachery. The Aedirnians were consequently caught off guard by Nilfgaard's blitz offensive and, having failed to establish their defenses, capitulated within a fortnight. Looking out over the burning fields and villages from the ramparts of Aldersberg, Ardal aep Dahy smiled with pride. He had every confidence that this very fortress would forever bear the legacy of his triumph. Arnjolf the Patricide :Scroll 1: Arnjolf's childhood was a happy one: hearthside tales were told by mum, longboats were whittled from logs, and children's games were played… That is, until that fateful day when his estranged father, Ulrik, returned home. :Scroll 2: Ulrik had vanished before Arnjolf was born. The Nilfgaardians intercepted his longship, their whole crew put in chains. Six years passed before he managed to escape… Yet by then, the Ulrik of the past was already gone. :Scroll 3: Ulrik jumped on any excuse to erupt in a rage, especially if he'd been drinking – and by gods did he drink. His pent-up anger often boiled over onto his wife and children. He beat, and pulled, and slapped with his bare hands. Well, at least that's how it started… :Scroll 4: Ulfa, the youngest son, lost his life under his father's axe handle. Agrid, his wife, committed suicide. The night after her funeral, Arnjolf settled his accounts with his father… Later, now branded as one of the Disgraced, he abandoned Skellige's shores. :Chest 1: Arnjolf numbered among the Disgraced – a band of Skelligan warriors guilty of a crime so vile that the only suitable punishment is exile from the Isles. But one path to regaining their honor remained: death in battle without armor against a worthy foe. And if the misdeed proved especially sinister, he was to be denied his weapon as well. Arnjolf reserved the right to wield his axes – blades he washed in blood at every opportunity. :Chest 2: Arnjolf's body was covered with tattoos. The right shoulder bore his criminal sentence as delivered by Clan Brokvar's Council of Elders. The left shoulder bore the name of the father he slew. He marked his back with tallies for the years he'd spent in exile. Finally, upon his brow, a knife-carving of a rune with a simple message for enemy archers: "Aim here." :Chest 3: The Disgraced once earned coin as blades-for-hire across the Continent. They seemed the ideal soldiers: modest fees, fought like frenzied bears, and exhibited no fear nor pain. Though, often after a hard-won battle, the Disgraced would suddenly charge at the nearest ally – frustrated at having emerged with their lives yet again. As their reputation spread, only the most desperate invited the Disgraced into their ranks… Eldain :Scroll 1: Eldain tried, with all the strength his will could muster, to live in peace among humans. He bowed to his neighbors in respect, brushed off insults and the occasional shove. Yet when the surrounding orchards suffered from blight, a scapegoat was needed. Someone, anyone to blame for their misfortune. Eldain was an elf – and that was enough. :Scroll 2: Eldain joined the Scoia'tael fully aware that their war was doomed to fail, and at the end of that road only death awaited him. He decided, therefore, that his mission in life would be to live on in memories of humans – as a nightmare. :Scroll 3: Eldain knows how to stir and play on people's fears. He tortures his victims in roadside thickets, where their screams are within earshot of every passing traveler. The mutilated corpses he then leaves exposed to rot near human settlements. :Scroll 4: It comes as no surprise that quickly Eldain became the most hated of all Scoia'tael in Aedirn. Yet despite the immense bounty placed on his head by the king, few dared seek him out… :Chest 1: It's commonly known that Eldain had a soft spot for music. In fact, prior to joining the Scoia'tael, he frequented human festivals as a lutist. On one occasion, Eldain's forces captured a minstrel who requested to sing rather than utter his final words, in the hopes that Eldain would be swayed to mercy. Indeed, with a grin across his face, Eldain enjoyed and applauded the bard's performance. He then ordered the man flayed alive. :Chest 2: Eldain selected the Moulderwood as the base of his commando's operation, for it was a primordial forest so dense that even under the glare of the noon sun it bore the semblance of twilight. Only two types of human caravans ever traversed it: those surrounded by at least twenty armed guards, and those that never emerged. :Chest 3: When Eldain's commando seized control of the Moulderwood, many Aen Seidhe insisted he rebuild the numerous elven ruins scattered throughout, yet Eldain always refused. Some suspected the ruins benefitted the Scoia'tael by reminding the elves of human cruelty. The truth was much more mundane. Columns serve as better cover when toppled. Gernichora :Scroll 1: Angren is one of the most treacherous regions of the Continent… And Ysgith is the most dangerous locale within Angren. It is there one can find the lair of the horrifying monstrosity known to locals as Gernichora. :Scroll 2: According to some, Gernichora appears as a tall woman, covered head to toe in blood-gorged leeches. Others claim she resembles a siren, though with the abdomen of a leech in place of a fish tail. The debate is likely to rage on, however, as no one who's had the pleasure to examine the beast firsthand has ever returned alive. :Scroll 3: Nevertheless, the inhabitant of Angren's marshes are well-acquainted with her most iconic trait: the fruits of Ysgith. From afar they appear to be thirst-quenching apples – so plump, red, and juicy that the branches bend under their weight… Yet whenever a wayward traveler—delirious with hunger—reaches for one, he grabs naught but an enormous leech, engorged on blood near to the point of bursting. :Scroll 4: Gernichora's not wholly unlike a vampire, though rather than feast on the blood of others, she feeds them with her own. She latches parasites to her body, then dangles them from trees. Then any beast or monster which tastes of her fruits shall become completely subservient to her will… :Chest 1: Gernichora, as the legend goes, was once a princess on her way to wed one of King Cedric's sons in Vizima when her retinue ran adrift in Angren, engulfed by the treacherous swamps of Ysgith. The princess, at the last possible moment, caught hold of a nearby tree root before the bog's thick mud could swallow her up. Desperate for help, she screamed and screamed, yet there wasn't a soul for miles. Others arrived at her side, however. The princess was quickly overwhelmed by hundreds of leeches that drained her body down to the last drop of blood. Then, enveloped in the mysterious power of Ysgith's swamps, the princess was reborn – a monster. :Chest 2: Gernichora was, in fact, a post-Conjunction monster whose name derives from the Elder Speech. The elves called her Gvaern Ichaer – the Bloody Mistress. The Aen Seidhe, though incapable of defeating Gernichora, did their best to limit her power. When the last elves left Angren, their warnings fell on deaf ears. It wasn't long before the effects of local ignorance and negligance were felt… :Chest 3: Many rulers have attempted to harness the power of Ysgith: first the Temerians, followed by the Nilfgaardians. Drawn by its potential, they sent vast settler caravans – heavily guarded, of course – into the tepid swamps. But the end result was always the same: affliction, insanity, and the stench of mass graves to whet the appetite of nearby ghouls. Ysgith largely remains uninhabited, and perhaps that's for the best. Queen Meve :Scroll 1: Princess Meve was the bane of every royal governess. Rather than knit, she preferred climbing trees. Instead of practicing scales on the harp, she sparred with her brothers using wooden swords. And in lieu of romance novels, she pored over the memoirs of decorated generals. :Scroll 2: It was decided that Meve should be married off as soon as possible. Alas, few men of noble birth were willing to ask for the hand of a scrappy sixteen-year-old with scratched knees and bruises every color of the rainbow… :Scroll 3: In the end, it was the King of Rivia, Reginald the Courageous, who claimed her hand. Despite not displaying a particularly keen intellect, he proved far wiser than Meve's governesses. Rather than attempt to tame the unruly princess, he simply fell in love with her for who she was. :Scroll 4: Sadly, their idyllic union did not last long. Reginald died but a few years later. Neighboring sovereigns presumed the newly widowed Queen would collapse under the weight of the crown; thus, even before the bells of mourning had ceased their tolling, they crossed the border into Rivia. Yet, what awaited the invaders proved a surprise most unpleasant… :Chest 1: At first, Meve rarely demonstrated the affections expected of a loving wife. Thus, Reginald sought advice from the noble ladies of his court, who were all in agreement: to win Meve's heart, a gift must be bestowed that would show the depths of the king's love. Alas… Meve proved rather selective. Without a word of explanation, she discarded the finest Ofiri tapestries, flung the sapphire-studded necklaces out the window, and splintered a Koviri lute against her chamber floor. Yet when Reginald presented her a suit of exquisite, gilded plate armor, well… That cold metal melted Meve's heart. :Chest 2: Meve possessed many fine qualities: keen insight, breathtaking beauty, and unrivaled bravery. Yet like everyone, she was not without fault. Greatest among them was perhaps her failure to grasp the nature of human weakness. She measured others by the impossible standards she set for herself, and hence quickly bonded with those of equally strong character. Those of a more "sensitive" constitution she held in disfavor – sometimes even contempt. As a result, her relationships with her sons was strained from the very start. This was especially true of her eldest – Villem. :Chest 3: Tucked away within the queen's castle in Rivia was a superbly stocked armory, where every manner of exquisite steelwork could be found: elven blades, specially cast Hawker flails… Yet of all the finely tuned instruments of death at her disposal, Meve most highly prized the Mahakam-forged sihil uniquely dubbed the "Sharp Bastard." When asked how the blade acquired such a moniker she merely replied with a heavy sigh. Evidently, the question brought old memories to the fore, both deeply intimate and somber. Crimson Curse Event tree :Scroll 1: Since the dawn of time, people have peered with curious eyes into the night sky. Among the stars, they've sought signs from the gods, even prophecies of the future. For some, it has worked—though often at the price of losing their minds. :Scroll 2: One such clairvoyant was a mage by the name of Eltibald, who foretold the impending arrival of the Black Sun. His next work was meant to herald an even graver misfortune… Alas, he passed away before the manuscript could be completed. :Scroll 3: Eltibald's unfinished manuscript bore the title "The Crimson Curse; or, Evil's Awakening." In this tome, he prophesied that once the moon turns a crimson hue, monsters – those previously hidden to humankind – would emerge to feast on flesh and blood. :Scroll 4: ltibald's apprentices considered his latest treatise to be the ravings of a madman, and thus, in the interest of preserving the renowned mage's legacy, kept them hidden from public view. Only years later, as the Continent drowned in blood, did they understand the gravity of their mistake… :Chest 1: Eltibald derived his prophecies not only from his observations of celestial bodies, but also from inscriptions found on sepulchers and menhirs of the Wozgor and Dauk peoples – human cultures considered among the Continent's most ancient and mysterious. Ultimately, he came to discover the Crimson Curse after examining sacrificial stone slabs of the Svalblod cult in Skellige. According to the isles' inhabitants, the cruel, deity-like being had already been vanquished once and for all. Alas, they could not have been further from the truth… :Chest 2: Of course, intelligent monsters had known of the Crimson Curse far earlier than humans. Higher vampires, knockers, sylvans… All sensed the red moon's approach—and all awaited it with eager anticipation. For they knew such an opportunity to settle their grudges against humankind may never again present itself. :Chest 3: Historians have long been fascinated by a particular conundrum: how is it that humans rule over the Continent, from the Dragon Mountains to the Great Sea, while monsters – whether werebbubb or godling, fiend or leshen – possess the greater strength? That humans to this day force these powerful beasts deeper into dense woodlands and mountain caves? Some scholars argue that the success of mankind lies in its capacity to build complex social structures, whereas monsters are blindly driven by their appetite for blood. Ever with the sharp intellect and loose tongue, Regis once mused over the question with his close friend, Dettlaff van der Eretein. Regis could not have known, however, how his words that fateful day would forever shift the course of history… Anna Henrietta :Scroll 1: Duchess Anna Henrietta is widely revered for her many favorable qualities—in particular, her generosity, kindheartedness and sensitivity to the plight of Toussaint's commoners. If only she had but a touch more patience and perspective—why, she would have all the makings of a truly prodigious sovereign! :Scroll 2: The famed bard Dandelion who, for a time, became intimately entwined with Anna Henrietta, drew creative inspiration from his passionate affair with the duchess: "Across the world most fickle I've found, a mountain's weather and a little weasel crowned." :Scroll 3: Though perhaps not the wittiest words penned by the illustrious poet, they bring light to a very real problem. Anna Henrietta was prone to sudden changes of opinion without provocation—a reality that oft caused the already powdered faces of the duchess's court to turn a shade paler. :Scroll 4: For, when the duchess fell into a gracious mood, she doled out great riches and noble titles like chocolate soufflés at a royal banquet. Yet, should anything disrupt her fragile equilibrium, heads rolled down Beauclair's cobbled streets and crimson blood pooled on the palace's marbled floors. :Chest 1: Anna Henrietta never felt the weight of a sword in her hand, pondered the memoirs of great rulers, nor cared enough to deeply study the Continent's rich history. Yet these apparent faults have done little to diminish her duchy's successes in matters of war. Her secret? Knight-errants from across the Continent – drawn by word of Anna's beauty and charm – are willing to sacrifice anything to earn the duchess's favor. From a safe distance, in the company of her maidservants, Anna Henrietta fans herself as the chivalrous knights' declare their vows—casting them beguiling looks as they gallop off toward their doom. :Chest 2: When it comes to grace and couture, none go to greater lengths than the duchess herself. Gods forbid she be caught wearing the same gown twice, and woe betide any soul who spies Her Grace before her frizzy curls have been tamed into a perfectly symmetrical coiffure. However, should circumstances demand it, Anarietta would not hesistate to tear off her frilly skirt to mount the nearest steed and rush headlong into another adventure. :Chest 3: Despite Toussaint's status as a vassal state within the mighty Nilfgaardian Empire, Anna Henrietta never faced a significant conflict within its borders. It should come as no great surprise then that Beauclair's guardsmen are better trained for parades and fanfare than mortal combat. Thus, when vampires and other bloodthirsty beasts emerged to feast from the caverns deep beneath the duchy's capital, the city's only hope rushed to meet them with dull blades and frilled caftans—only to be decimated. Yet for those who survived, nothing could have better prepared them for the true horrors of war. Queen Calanthe :Scroll 1: Calanthe — or Calanthe Fiona Riannon, to be precise — was oft referred to under two monikers. Throughout the Continent she was known as the "Lioness of Cintra", and on the Skellige Isles as "Ard Rhena" — that is, the "High Queen". Both names fit her better than even the finest pair of silken gloves. :Scroll 2: Calanthe proved as valiant as she was stern. At the mere sight of her, boisterous warriors would fall utterly silent, and even the most vainglorious counts stooped low in bow. Few dared to act against her will, and fewer still would repeat their mistake. :Scroll 3: Calanthe had always wished to rule on her own, hence her longtime aversion toward marriage. Yet when she finally decided to wed, the well of eager suitors had run dry. With eyes like green ice, her fearsome gaze did little to melt the hearts of young princes… :Scroll 4: In the end, Calanthe walked down the aisle on two occasions. Her first husband, Roegner de Salm, gave her an heiress; the second, Eist Tuirseach — true love. It could have made for a beautiful tale… If not for its bitter end. :Chest 1: As history tells us, Calanthe was the last to ever reign as Queen of Cintra. During the First Nilfgaardian War, Emhyr var Emreis moved to assimilate the neighboring kingdom into his empire. The Lioness of Cintra, as she was fondly known, defended her ancestral home with great ferocity – enduring grave wounds herself. Yet, sensing the castle's immininent ruin, she ordered her courtiers to deliver her a knife with which she could take her own life. None dared comply and play part in their queen's demise. Alas, their defiance was in vain, for Calanthe then simply threw herself from the tower's highest window. :Chest 2: Sadly, the queen's body was never found—likely trampled beyond recognition into blood-soaked mud by Nilfgaardian heavy infantry. Following the war, two glorious monuments were erected in her honor: one in Skellige, where she was symbolically laid to rest beside her beloved husband, and the other beneath the Cintra Castle by the request of Emhyr var Emreis, her conqueror. It seems—for reasons likely known only to him—the Nilfgaardian emperor felt bitter remorse over the queen's death… :Chest 3: Calanthe's veins carried the blood of an ancient Aen Elle line—that of Lara Dorren, one of the Aen Saevherne, or elven sages as they are commonly known. Though the Lioness of Cintra didn't inherit the magical talents of the elder blood, such an affinity did reveal itself in her daughter, Pavetta, and thereafter in her granddaughter, Cirilla. Yet given Calanthe's infamous temper, perhaps such a fate was for the best. To think what she would have been capable of had she been versed in the arcane magical arts… Dana Méadbh :Scroll 1: Sometimes, on a hot summer's day, you might spot the silhouette of a young woman in the heart of a birch grove, surrounded by dancing butterflies with a crown of flowers atop her head. The elves call her Dana Méadbh. To humans, she is Lyfia, or the Queen of the Fields. :Scroll 2: Not even the greatest of the elven sages know who – or what – she truly is. Some consider her a goddess, others – the forces of nature embodied. Though one thing is for certain: without her presence, the Continent would sit as a lifeless rock in the sea. :Scroll 3: It is Dana Méadbh who awakens plants and beasts at the advent of spring, who nurtures the buds of delicate flowers. Wherever she steps, the land bestows its bounty. Where she treads not, stalks snap, flowers wilt, and harvests wane. :Scroll 4: For a long time, Dana Méadbh refused to meddle in the affairs of mortals. She held love for all races. Yet the balance of the world was disturbed and Lyfia sought to restore it. By force, if necessary. :Chest 1: Until recent history, few mortals had ever laid eyes upon Dana Méadbh. It is said she once appeared only in spring or summer, and even then with no guarantee. Some claim she was most likely to be witnessed during the Feast of the Scythe, or Lammas, as the elves call it. She would join in to the harvest dance, even weave marigolds into maidens' braids. Though when the world is bound in ice, as well as in recent memory, Dana Méadbh has begun to appear more frequently… Alas, this is no reason to rejoice, for the Queen of the Fields is angry. Rather than show gratitude for nature's plentiful bounty, the world's inhabitants instead continue to tear and plunder away ever more. The time has come they were taught a lesson – one that shall be remembered for a long, long while. :Chest 2: Drawn more to dead rock than living plants and beasts, dwarves possess the weakest connection with nature. Despite this apparent lack of affinity, they too worship Dana Méadbh, yet call her by another name: Bloëmenmagde. They demonstrate their honor by laying wreaths of hops and jars of pickled fungi at a crossroads. None know whether Lyfia, as she is sometimes known, truly enjoys such offerings… But the knockers of the surrounding mountains certainly do. :Chest 3: Dana Méadbh sometimes takes the form of a ordinary woman, using her guise to live amongst mortals. She does not speak, as if mute, staying clear of the beaten path, yet observes all with a keen eye. In those villages where the peasantfolk do not weed the poppies and cornflowers from their fields of rye, where they treat their cows to the delight of carrots, Lyfia multiplies their bounty. Yet where peasants treat the land not as mother but slave, so comes the devastation of frost and hail… Dettlaff van der Eretein :Scroll 1: Dettlaff once tried to live among people in peace. He muzzled his bloodlust, mastered the Common Speech, and perfected the basics of courtly etiquette. Over time, he began to make friends of humans… And in one in particular, he found a lover. :Scroll 2: His beloved's name was Syanna. Dettlaff's love for her was absolute. He was prepared to do any and all for her. In fact, Syanna made ample use of his love-driven dedication… That is, until the day she vanished without a trace or a word. :Scroll 3: Syanna likely assumed that Dettlaff would swallow the bitter pill of rejection like all her lovers before him. Alas, the reasoning of vampires works differently than in men. And so, too, did Dettlaff's fury burn more fiercely. :Scroll 4: Dettlaff felt scorned not only by Syanna, but by the entire human race. He took them all for traitors, hypocrites, and deceivers. Unfortunately, even but a brief look back on the Continent's history shows us he is not altogether wrong… :Chest 1: Witchers used to classify higher vampires as a distinct species. However, their logic was not fully sound, for each possesses its own unique character and abilities. Regis, for example, was a loner endowed with extraordinary intellect. Dettlaff, by contrast, seemed destined to lead a flock. Lower forms of vampires such as katakans, ekimmaras, and bruxae answered his every call without delay. The inhabitants of Beauclair would quickly learn the disastrous consequences of such overwhelming control… :Chest 2: Perhaps the most distinctive piece of Dettlaff's attire is a jewel-encrusted brooch crafted in the shape of a moth – a gift bestowed to him by Regis. Dettlaff viewed the token as a symbol of his connection with the night. Regis, however, held a different association in mind. He knew his friend, driven primal urges, would – like a moth – always be drawn back to the light. Even if that meant he would one day be consumed by the flames. :Chest 3: After Dettlaff slayed four knights of Toussaint guilty of despicable acts, he became known to Toussaintois as the Beast of Beauclair. Sentenced to death for the killings, the Toussaint court summoned a witcher to track and kill the unknown monster. Dettlaff could but watch on in utter disbelief, for the widely adored Duchess Anna Henrietta has condemned dozens to the scaffold for much, much less! Even the monster slayer called to Toussaint had more innocent lives on his conscience than the alleged beast he was commissioned to kill! This was the tipping point. Dettlaff decided to no longer adhere to the laws of men. He would instead impose upon them the vampiric code of honor – a system founded on the harshest punishments… Svalblod :Scroll 1: Skelligers hold a special reputation on the Continent for their cruelty. In truth, the folk of the isles do indeed revel in battle, in blood honorably spilt. Though as with all things, some live at an extreme, worshipping an idol who personifies the frenzy and remorseless cruelty of battle. He is called Svalblod. :Scroll 2: Svalblod is an incarnation of both man and bear in such a way that can give even the grizzliest Skelligers nightmares. His deformed body is not unlike a battlefield in itself where contradictory elements perpetually clash – a true embodiment of the grotesque. :Scroll 3: His acolytes would take a hallucinogenic decoction before heading deep within a cave at the heart of Ard Skellig. Once there, the cavern's bears would feast upon them alive. Then, like parasites, the cultists would seize control of the beasts' bodies. :Scroll 4: The jarls of the Skellige Isles at last decided to put an end to the practice. They seized Svalblod's followers, bound them to longships, and cast them out to the high sea without a sail to guide them. This was to be the final blow to eradicate the cult once and for all. Alas… It is not so easy to kill a god. :Chest 1: The heart of the Svalblod cult was rooted at Fornhala, a settlement situated atop the nigh impassable mountains of Ard Skellig. After worship of the cruel idol became forbidden on the isles, the village's homes were deserted, its temples had fallen into disrepair. Yet those who have since stepped foot on the grounds of Fornhala – be they shepherds herding stray sheep or adventurers seeking shelter from a blizzard – have sworn by the gods upon their return of what they witnessed… Fresh blood glistening on altars to Svalblod and the roar of bears still echoing from caverns below… :Chest 2: Alas, the truth of the cult's survival struck the islanders in the harshest of ways. A feast at Kaer Trolde organized by Jarl Crach an Craite was violently interrupted by bloodsoaked massacre. Normally, for a feast to end in a brawl would come as no great surprise, perhaps even the preferred way to cap the night. Yet, in this case, several of the guests transformed into ferocious bears, eviscerating innocents. Fortunately, fate spared some lucky lives by delivering a seasoned witcher to the castle that very day… :Chest 3: The advent of the Crimson Curse emboldened Svalblod's fanatics. They emerged from hiding, worshipping their cruel god with newfound zeal. Many young warriors with dreams of glory and unstoppable strength succumb to the whispers of the cult's depraved druids and take part in their forbidden rituals. Jarls have convened to discuss whether to lead another raid into the mountains of Ard Skellig… Or to forget conflicts of the past and use the bear god's followers to defend Skellige against its foes. Syndicate Faction tree :Scroll 1: Ah, Novigrad! Thirty-thousand inhabitants, eight banks, four water mills… And five exceptionally dangerous gangs. :Scroll 2: Every Novigradian knows the names of the underworld's most powerful leaders: Cleaver, the King of Beggars, Gudrun Bjornsdottir, Whoreson Junior, and Sigi Reuven. :Scroll 3: They differ from each other in almost every regard – age, race, gender, demeanor. Yet, they all possess one trait that ties them together, a common denominator… Their love for coin. :Scroll 4: For a purse brimming with gold, they are prepared to do whatever necessary – betray, destroy, slaughter. And they will do so with a smile upon their lips. :Chest 1: Not only is Novigrad the Continent's most vital port city, but it also serves as the seat of the Church of the Eternal Fire. It is here the cult's hierarch presides, it is here the Sacred Flame burns… It is here mages, herbalists, alchemists, and non-humans are burned alive en masse atop pyres. :Chest 2: Novigrad remains a free city, yes, but for how much longer? Redanians and Nilfgaardians alike gaze upon the wealthy port city with hungry eyes. Both attempt to curry favor and influence amongst city leaders, clergymen, and the dregs of the underworld. Yet, to earn their loyalty, a handsome sum must be paid… :Chest 3: Folk from the world over flock to Novigrad with dreams of great riches, fame, and a taste of true luxury and power. For a fortunate few, their dreams indeed become a reality… For all else, what awaits them is a life of begging for coppers, praying to the gods for just one more pouchful of fisstech. Cleaver :Scroll 1: Cleaver is actually a rather kind fellow. Truly. That is, of course, until you've said the wrong thing. Then he makes it quite clear just how he earned his moniker. :Scroll 2: Carlo Varese worked in a slaughterhouse as a young dwarf, becoming adept at butchering hogs. In time, a new truth dawned on him – slaughtering a pig isn't all that different than slaughtering a man. :Scroll 3: Those who stand in Cleaver's way, intentionally or otherwise, can expect to find themselves later at the bottom of the Pontar in pieces tiny enough to be swallowed up by river fish. :Scroll 4: But as long as you play by his rules and do as he commands, the leader of the Crownsplitters will treat you like family. And you'd best never betray your family… :Chest 1: The non-humans of Novigrad knew all too well the city guard has no intention of improving their lot in life. In fact, they often do the exact opposite. For this reason, in non-human quarters of Novigrad, Carlo "Cleaver" Varese maintains order. Those who cooperate with Cleaver praise the protection he offers. But be warned, for those who refuse it are often never heard from again. :Chest 2: Cleaver prefers to conduct business in the city baths because it is difficult to smuggle in a blade under one's towel and, should negotiations call for a stronger hand, a bare-knuckle resolution works to Cleaver's advantage. With fists the size of rye loaves, the brawl and subesequent business arrangement often conclude in his favor. :Chest 3: Most dwarves who have decided to live amongst humans do their best to not stand out. They walk with their gaze cast down, their caps pulled over their eyes. But not Cleaver. With chest bared, tattoos and jewelry in full view, and his greased mohawk glistening in the sun, he's rather difficult to miss. Cyrus Engelkind Hemmelfart :Scroll 1: Hierarch Hemmelfart may have the appearance of a decrepit man with hands shaking from old age and legs shaking beneath his prodigious girth, but that voice! By the gods, a voice that could move mountains! :Scroll 2: Hemmelfart never utters – he thunders. His fiery sermons echo from his temple's gilded halls throughout all the alleys and homes of Novigrad. :Scroll 3: Non-humans, alchemists, mages and sorceresses – all enemies of the Eternal Fire cower at the sound of his booming oration. :Scroll 4: For, although Hemmelfart is no warrior in his own right, his loyal army of Firesworn zealots yearn for a chance to impose their righteousness will upon the wicked. :Chest 1: As Hierarch of the Church of the Eternal Fire, Cyrus Hemmelfart is a man of great power and the knowledge of how to wield it. Absolutions, excommunications, indulgences… they are, all of them, excellent tools for applying pressure on allies and foes alike. :Chest 2: Hemmelfart quickly ascended to the peak of the Church's hierarchy and equally quickly became accustomed to the privileges that accompany the position. He adorns himself in silks and satins, drinks rare wines from silver chalices, partakes only of the most sumptuous fare and, discreetly of course, keeps many supple bodies to warm him in his bed… :Chest 3: Many Novigradians often wonder whether the Church of the Eternal Fire's chief ideologue himself even believes in the faith's doctrine. Does he truly believe a new and better world will rise from the ashes of righteous flame? Of course, not a soul would ever utter these questions in public, for they know that those who do find themselves branded heretics and burned alive atop a pyre… Gudrun Bjornsdottir :Scroll 1: Gudrun had once been a terror of the Great Sea. At the mere sight of her dreaded longship, the Flyndr, merchant vessels would hoist their white flags of surrender without a moment's delay. :Scroll 2: That is, until the day the cutthroat Skelliger decided to offload her bounty in Novigrad… Then resolved to settle there forever. :Scroll 3: For you see, the Free City of Novigrad is laden with great riches. Why prowl the vast seas in search of unknown treasures when much more had been so conveniently concentrated already in one place? :Scroll 4: The Flyndr remains to this day moored in Novigrad's port, its deck floating scarcely above the waves. Has it fallen into disrepair or taken on water, you ask? No, no… The truth is simply that precious metals in immense quantities can prove rather heavy. :Chest 1: The pirates under Gudrun's command learned quickly that the hooks they'd long used for boarding ships would perform equally well on the multistory buildings of Novigrad. Nowadays, whenever prudent Novigradians hear something clank and scrape across their roofs, they quickly gather their most valuable possessions and hurry to lock themselves in the cellar. :Chest 2: On the Skellige Isles, women and men stand on equal footing. Both learn the arts of war and seafaring. Despite this widespread knowledge of Skellige's customs, many mainland folk give a snort and a wink at the sight of Skellige's warrior women, thinking their weapons serve merely as decorative trinkets. Gudrun has always relished opportunities to personally educate folk on the consequences of their ignorance. :Chest 3: Many Novigradians have tried to woo the beauteous pirate's heart with exquisite floral bouquets and romantic ballads. Despite these persistent efforts, Gudrun always firmly rejected their advances, for her heart had belonged to someone else… King of Beggars :Scroll 1: None wish to lay their eyes upon Novigrad's beggars – their eyes milky and blind, their bodies pocked with scabs and festering wounds. :Scroll 2: Yet, paradoxically, in their repulsivness lies their strength, for they are invisible fixtures in the streets. Few think to choose their words carefully in the presence of the city's haggard wretches. :Scroll 3: Francis Bedlam, known to most as the King of Beggars, has long understood that it is information, not crowns, that serve as Novigrad's most valuable currency. :Scroll 4: In a matter of a few years, Bedlam created a quiet, unseen web of information gathering formed from the city's destitute. There is little that transpires in Novigrad without the King of Beggars' knowledge. :Chest 1: The enclave in Novigrad from which the King of Beggars conducts his business is called the Putrid Grove – a small district of muddy, fetid streets where city guards dare not venture. Though it is at their loss, for hidden in the Grove's derelict structures are many sought-after alchemists, mages, and sorceresses destined for penance by fire. :Chest 2: The King of Beggars, despite his lofty title, makes no use of traditional symbols for wealth and power. He wears humble garb and conceals his face under a hood. Though he can be distinguished from rest of the cities wretched masses by a characteristic golden signet ring. At the very sight of him, Novigrad's destitute and beggarly lower their heads out of respect and subservience. :Chest 3: In contrast to the city's other crime lords, Francis Bedlam possesses a good heart. The problem is, however, he rarely makes full use of it. He suppresses his noblest impulses, ignores his pangs of conscience. Though more than any other he's been known to demonstrate unprovoked altruistic moments of goodwill. At least, once every few years or so… Sigismund Dijkstra :Chest 1: Sigismund Dijkstra was man of razor-sharp intellect and great ambition who arose from common origins to become the head of Redanian Intelligence. Alas, betrayal later forced his retreat from the Regency Council and the kingdom. This setback, however, merely served to open another door for one as shrewd and enterprising as he. Seeing the great potential in Novigrad's criminal underworld, he entrenched himself under the alias Sigi Reuven and quickly garnered tremendous influence. And it was he who introduced to the Free City's underbelly a code of conduct – an arrangement to be used to his benefit whenever the opportunity presented itself. Whoreson Junior :Scroll 1: Greasy hair, bloodshot eyes, a mess of underworld tattoos, and a grin that'll make your skin crawl. That, dears friends, is the description of a monster worse than most you'll find in any forest or swamp. :Scroll 2: You'll find no man or beast more repulsive in all Novigrad. Nay… The entirety of the Continent. :Scroll 3: This sadistic sod revels in the pain of others. He relishes nothing more than hearing the pathetic whimpers of one's pleas for mercy, then watching as the light of life fades from their eyes. :Scroll 4: Like many men in power, he often has many women brought to his residence. Unlike those many other men, however, he never lets the women leave. :Chest 1: Scholars, philosophers, and religious figures have debated since the dawn of time what can cause a man to become evil. His nature, his upbringing, perhaps black magic or poisons? In Whoreson Junior's case, it was a thick leather belt which his father lashed at him for any reason at all… And sometimes even in the absence of one. Years of fear, pain and humiliation scarred the young Cyprian Wiley. Horrible years for which the people of Novigrad must now pay the price. :Chest 2: Whoreson's lackeys wear masquerade masks and jester hats with bells, and paint themselves with grotesque, clownish smiles. Newcomers to the city often mistake them for entertainers and approach closer to indulge in a show or a laugh. Such a blunders have cost many travelers their coin… As well as many of their lives. :Chest 3: Perhaps Whoreson's most dangerous trait is his unpredictability. One moment he flashes his toothy grin and pats you on the back, then in the next you'll feel his dagger lodged between your ribs. Why? Because of politics, animosity, or coin? No. The mood simply struck him. Iron Judgment Event tree :Scroll 1: Two armies stood on the fields outside Brenna. On one side, the imperial regiment led by Marshal Coehoorn. On the other, the Northern soldiers commanded by John Natalis. :Scroll 2: The empire was aided by Scoia'tael commandos, while the Nordlings had volunteers from Mahakam. Both groups were promised equality and freedom. Both groups were, of course, deceived. :Scroll 3: After a long and fierce fight, the Nordlings emerged victorious. What tipped the balance in their favor? Their tactical genius? The support of sorcerers? The sacrifice of the footmen? No. Lieutenant Lamarr Flaut. :Scroll 4: Flaut was supposed to scout whether the Nordlings weren't hiding reinforcements, but he turned coward and lied about his mission. What would have happened if someone braver had been sent instead? Historians have been debating this for years… :Chest 1: People have many flaws. They're cowardly. Corruptible. Fickle. Many kings and philosophers lamented this fact. And the Salamandra? The Salamandra acted. Using stolen witcher mutagens, they created new, better people. Resistant to pain. As strong as a bear. As obedient as the most disciplined soldier. And, most importantly, devoid of any conscience. :Chest 2: It's hard to put fear in the hearts of the people of Skellige. Emperor Emhyr was failed to do so, and so did the king of the Wild Hunt. But there was one man who succeeded - a sea raider named Morkvarg. To him nothing was sacred, He had no respect for laws or rules. The only things dear to him were the sweet jingle of gold and the metallic taste of blood. To see the red sails of his drakkar, "The Terror of the Seas", it was like hearing one's death sentence. :Chest 3: They say Radovid was a gentle boy, friendly and as rambunctious as any other child. But then Philippa Eilhart, the court sorceress, became his tutor. Tales of what she did to the young prince make one's blood run cold. How much truth there is to these stories, no one knows. What is known is that when Radovid ascended to the throne he was a different man. He no longer smiled, and his iron-clad hand was always curled into a fist. Merchants of Ofir Event tree :Scroll 1: The only things a typical Nordling knows about Ofier is what he hears in rumors, so a lot of nonsense and not a whole lot of truth. But most rumor-mongers agree on several points… :Scroll 2: First of all, Ofier's located somewhere at the end of the world, far beyond the seas. Second of all, there are no normal animals there. The horses are either white with black stripes or mean and hunchbacked, while cattle have tails growing out of their faces instead of their rears. :Scroll 3: It's surprising, then, that the Ofieri merchants look like normal human beings - they have one head each, as many limbs as they should and behinds in the right places. Still, they haggle like fiends and create wonders like no Nordling can. :Scroll 4: In the eyes of the Ofieri, the inhabitants of the Northern Kingdoms are simple barbarians. Even the famously progressive Nilfgaardians seem like a largely backward nation to them. Unfortunately, ambushes by the Scoia'tael and the numerous hardships encountered by merchants on their journeys across the Continent only reinforce that viewpoint. :Chest 1: The first expedition from Ofier was led by Dulla kh'Amanni, or rather the first one that was well documented by historians. There is evidence, however, in the form of Ofieri weapons and decoctions, that suggests a much earlier expedition took place from the land beyond the sea to the Continent. Besides, Dulla's journey would not be as well-known if it weren't for one detail - knowledge and trade were only a cover for the Ofieri's real goal. He was sent by the powerful king Nibras to find the monarch's son who disappeared during his travels to the Northern Kingdoms. Unfortunately, Dulla was not successful. The king was informed of his son's death and Dulla was stuck at the Upper Mill, awaiting further orders. Tired of the rural surroundings, he longed to return to his country. :Chest 2: According to legend, the Crow Mother is the oldest and most powerful of the living flaminicas. She leads a mysterious druid clan in the Gedyneith grove. No one knows, including the druids she leads, whether she is merely a human that can speak crow or the spirit of a crow enchanted into a human body. Or maybe she was a powerful crow deity once, ousted by Freya and eventually forgotten? The theories differ. But there's no doubt that the Crow Mother's followers are not afraid to peer into the darkness or reach for the most poten Ofieri decoctions, as opposed to the more restrained and, according to them, more cowardly druids from other circles. :Chest 3: The van Moorlehem family is known for their atypical need for slave labor. Apparently, without it, they would not be able to maintain their prestige or their extravagant lifestyle. It's said in the North that a Nilfgaardian aristocrat will not move a finger until a slave does it for him. On the surface, the van Moorlehems fit in perfectly. Only on the surface, though, because it's hard to find a servant at their palace. It could be said that after the showy parties, regularly and gladly organized by Ophelie van Moorlehem - Vincent's wife, the ruler of his heart and co-owner of their fortune - their residence stands practically empty. If, however, a slave happens to somehow wander around the palace grounds, the heir to the dynasty, Philippe van Moorlehem, takes them for a trip to the woods from where they never come back. Hence the family's high demand for "fresh blood"… They'd also like to try the slaves from Ofier, as long as they bleed as readily as the others. pl:Księga Nagród/2019: Rok Dzika